


Used To Know Me (the Remix)

by nagi_schwarz



Series: Foxtrot [92]
Category: Dollhouse, Sisters (1991 TV), Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 03:58:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6314416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remix of the original fill written for the comment_fic prompt: <i>Stargate Atlantis, John Sheppard/Nancy Sheppard, date night while they were still happily married.</i> From Nancy's POV. The officer's ball is a Dollhouse nightmare. Set pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Used To Know Me (the Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Used to Know Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6242737) by [nagi_schwarz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz). 



Nancy knew John Sheppard had grown up attending more than his fair share of fancy dinner parties, balls, and cotillions (Dave had once broken out photos of John escorting a girl at her coming out, the photo carefully doctored so it was a young Foxtrot and not the real John Sheppard in the photo; their resemblance to each other was uncanny but not quite close enough till around the time they both hit eighteen). Nancy also knew that when John was on leave, she got to be on leave. He was supposed to go to the Dollhouse, do a few random engagements with someone else as his handler, and he’d return to her programmed with happy memories of spending their leave together, while she had happy memories of going fishing and checking in with her family and not being Nancy Sheppard for a while. (Everyone at her cover job also assumed she was spending her leave with John, so it was convenient. And Topher always gave her a dossier of what memories he’d programmed into John, so she could reminisce appropriately about the fun they’d had.)

So this officer’s ball? Not at all something she was looking forward to. It was taking a chunk out of her real leave. But there was no way the Dollhouse would send John to the ball alone. That would totally break his cover. Nancy was lucky that all of the men and women in her family who’d served had been either Navy or Marines, so there was no chance of her running into anyone who might know her as anything but Nancy Sheppard.

But she was a handler for the Dollhouse first, Nancy Sheppard second, and herself third, so she put on the black velvet gown someone from the Dollhouse had sent along, put on the diamonds John had given her for their first anniversary, and made sure to spray on some of that perfume John liked so much (Topher had insisted on programming an attraction to this specific scent into the primary John Sheppard imprint as an extra measure of control, just to be safe, because they were separated for such long stretches).

Nancy had to give the Dollhouse this: they picked their dolls well. John Sheppard was a handsome man on a bad day. On a good day, dressed up in his service dress uniform, perfectly pressed, shoes shining, smiling at her like he was, he was beautiful. There was a reason people paid ridiculous amounts of money to have him for a day or two. She descended the stairs carefully, because she had to walk carefully in this dress (and she’d tear it in a heartbeat if duty called for it), and she felt his gaze on her. Just like one of those moments from a teen movie, when the geek girl comes downstairs and looks ten times more beautiful than anyone thought possible. She let John draw her in, kissed him (he kissed well; whether or not that had been programmed into him she didn’t care). She felt his breath against her neck, knew the perfume was doing the trick.

They took a cab to the hotel where the ball was being held, because both of them planned on drinking at least a little bit.

“Not a lot,” Nancy warned him. “You’d better have left your challenge coin at home. You’ll be sleeping on the couch for a week if you mess this up for me.”

“Of course I left it at home,” John said, eyes wide, expression innocent. Nancy didn’t buy it for a second, but that was okay. She wasn’t supposed to buy it, even if John Sheppard’s wife was.

She kissed him on the cheek. “Good. This is supposed to be a nice night. We earned it.”

Technically, Patrick Sheppard had bought it. Whether or not he’d paid for the Dollhouse to program John’s flying skills into him, Nancy didn’t know. She did know that John skirted the edges of insubordination on a regular basis but was such a damn good pilot that a lot of his CO’s let it go. She wondered if his flying skills were his or Foxtrot’s or, indeed, just a program.

The man beside her was beautiful and empty, and she was his prison guard.

The hotel was downtown, in the nicer district, and there were plenty of other cabs clustered at the front door, releasing uniformed passengers and their beautiful dates. When Nancy had had dreams of being a Hollywood starlet, she’d imagined that these parties would be the pinnacle of her career, the best fun ever, so far removed from the strict military upbringing she’d known. As it turned out, she was better suited for military than for parties. And here they were, come together: military uniforms, soft golden lighting, fine china and crystalware, real silverware, and real live American heroes, as far as the eye could see.

Nancy immediately scanned the room, searching out familiar faces. Some of the higher-ranked military officials had actives as dates, of that she had no doubt. She wanted to check in with the other handlers, make sure all was well, make sure no one ran into any trouble. If two actives saw each other, nothing should happen, but a handler was always better safe than sorry.

A photographer popped up beside them, wielding a camera with a comically large flashbulb.

“You’re looking heroic tonight, Captain Sheppard,” the man said, glancing at John’s nametag briefly. “Pose for a picture? With the compliments of the armed forces, of course. Your date is lovely.”

“My wife is very lovely,” John agreed, dodging all mention of heroism. He smiled at Nancy, and she fitted herself against his side like it was the most natural thing in the world (and it was, for his wife, but she wasn’t really his wife). She smiled as well, and the photographer snapped a couple of photos. Then he gave John a little numbered card and went to accost another couple.

John grinned at her. “It’s kind of like prom, isn’t it? All growing up, everyone said prom was a one-time deal, the experience of a lifetime. No one ever said it was practice for when we were older.”

Nancy grinned back. “Well, at least this time there aren’t teachers guarding the punch bowls.”

John waggled his eyebrows. “This time, the booze is totally legal. And free.”

“I’m warning you,” Nancy said. “No challenges. Tonight is a challenge-free zone. I arranged it with the other wives.”

“Other wives?” John echoed.

Nancy nodded to where Mitch and Dex were standing with their wives, Hannah and Annalise.

Dex waved them over, and they went to exchange greetings. Nancy shook hands with Mitch and Dex. They were a liability, the both of them. Where John was just occasionally insubordinate, those two were reckless. Nancy wanted more eyes on the ground where they were being stationed, because she didn’t trust those two not to get her active killed. Now that John was finished with his flight training, he’d be shipping out to Afghanistan for a good long while, and they’d switch him over to his other handler, but it was Nancy’s job to ensure he was safe - and also that the Dollhouse wasn’t compromised  - and she didn’t want the Dollhouse to lose an asset over someone else’s recklessness.

She needed to check in with Event Control anyway.

“Come on,” she said to Hannah and Annalise, “let’s go powder our noses, leave the boys to their shop talk.”

Annalise smiled at her; she was a diffident thing, easy to manipulate. Once she’d joined the ‘no challenge coins’ bandwagon, Hannah had come along easily enough. Of course, there was a ridiculous line at the ladies’ room, ladies lined up along the counters touching up their make-up gossiping with each other, sizing each other up (for the unattached, who’d come with the highest-ranking officer?). Nancy tensed when she recognized Whiskey and Kilo in the mix. She’d have to make sure they didn’t come anywhere near Foxtrot.

She did her business quickly and didn’t stick around the sinks longer than it took to wash her hands. She ducked out to a nearby alcove and activated her comm device.

“Event Control, this is Foxtrot Two,” she said.

“Acknowledged, Foxtrot Two. Sit rep?”

“Who the hell did the vetting for this event? I just saw Whiskey and Kilo in the ladies’ room.”

“Their handlers have been briefed about Foxtrot’s presence,” Event Control responded. He sounded bored. “Both Whiskey and Kilo are on engagements with high-ranking Army officers. They’ve been seated far away. There shouldn’t be a problem.”

The nice thing about long-term engagements was that Nancy didn’t have to spend a lot of time at the Dollhouse proper, and by extension neither did her active. They weren’t supposed to remember anything from the doll state, but Nancy didn’t want to take any risks.

Event control swore.

“What?” Nancy demanded. She scanned the passers-by. Annalise and Hannah hadn’t emerged from the ladies’ room yet. Hannah was a talker. They could be in there for a while.

“There are civilians from one of Foxtrot’s previous engagements here,” Event Control said.

Nancy took a deep breath. “Which ones? Which engagement?”

“Trevor Whitsig and his mother, Georgie. From the John Whitsig engagement.”

John Whitsig had bought Foxtrot as a young lover for his ex-wife, Georgie, so she’d see what she was missing and come back to him. It had been a long-term engagement - not as long as the ongoing John Sheppard engagement, but almost an entire school year all the same.

Nancy swore. “Sit rep?”

“Dammit. Foxtrot’s friends have futzed with the name cards and now they’re going to be sitting at the same table as the Whitsigs. Get out there, Foxtrot Two. We’ll send a containment team.”

“Wait. Don’t hit so heavy yet. Let me see what I can do. Foxtrot Two out.” Nancy straightened up when Hannah and Annalise emerged from the ladies’ room, smiled at them like she’d been waiting for them all along, and they threaded their way through the tables in search of their husbands.

Nancy spotted John first, pushed past Hannah and Annalise, extended a hand the way handlers did when they were recalling an active. She opened her mouth to recite her handler call, _Do you trust me?_ John’s answer was supposed to be, _With my life._

The programming held true. As soon as Nancy held out her hand in beckoning, John started toward her, drawn by instinctive trust in her, but the moment was broken by the kid in the army uniform behind him.

“Brian!”

Nancy’s eyes went wide, but she forced herself not to panic. Instead she cut through the crowd with as much grace as she could muster.

John had turned to look at the kid and his date (his mother, not that strange, mothers were proud of their sons who served).

“Brian,” the kid said again. Trevor Whitsig, his name was.

John frowned, but he kept his tone polite and friendly. “I’m sorry. I think you have me mixed up with someone else.”

Georgie Whitsig looked as panicked as Nancy felt. “Brian, it’s me, Georgie.”

Nancy reached down, activated the comm on her bracelet that connected to her oh-so-subtle earpiece so Event Control could hear just how much he’d screwed up.

John smiled tentatively. “My name is John, ma’am.”

Georgie recoiled like she’d been slapped. He’d called her ma’am. She’d had so much turmoil over dating a younger man. And he’d said his name was John, same as her husband, the husband she’d gone back to after things hadn’t panned out with her programmable boytoy (she’d been oblivious to the programmable bit, at any rate, and oblivious to the fact that one of her psych professors had been doing Brian Kohler-Voss on the side, because some psych professors were intrigued by the notion of programmable people and had the money to spend on an active from the Dollhouse).

“John Sheppard.” He pointed at his nametag helpfully, even though it only said J. Sheppard.

Nancy grasped his arm, reminded him of her presence. “John, is everything all right?” She smiled sweetly at Georgie Whitsig and dared her to make a scene.

“Just a case of mistaken identity.” John shrugged, exuding his easy charm. He offered his hand. “Captain John Sheppard. This is my wife, Nancy.”

Nancy offered her hand as well.

“These are a couple of men from my unit, Mitch and Dex.”

Trevor shook John’s hand. “I'm Trevor Whitsig. This is my mother, Georgie Whitsig. I – it's uncanny. You look just like this guy my mom used to –"

"Know," Georgie broke in before Trevor could say _date_. "From my grad program. Psychology. In Winnetka, Illinois."

Dex laughed. "John's many things, but a psych student isn't one of them."

"Maybe I just have one of those faces," John said apologetically. No. Foxtrot’s face was unforgettable. Nancy wondered what lie spun through his head, that would justify this bizarre moment.

In the background, Event Control was freaking out by issuing a series of sharp orders designed to shut the entire event down if needs be. Nancy was alert, watching John’s face for any hint of recognition, of a composite event in public.

"Are you related to the Kohler-Voss family?" Trevor asked, and one day Nancy was going to have to seriously mock Topher for some of the stupid names he gave the imprints.

"Not that I know of," John said, but a shadow crossed his face. He shook it off, offered one of his charming smiles. "But it looks like we're all sitting together, so why don't we enjoy some food and get to know each other a little better?"

Just then, another Army kid - Ceccoli, his nametag said - ducked between them, replaced his name card with someone else's, and vanished. Dex's wife looked horrified, but Dex just shrugged. Mitch hid a grin. Nancy was glad for the interruption. It broke the tension, brought some humor to the table. (Later, she’d be relieved that at that moment the kid really had been Ceccoli and not Victor the active, because there should have been only so many actives in a given place for an event like this, deploying an NSA unit in an emergency notwithstanding.)

She curled her fingers through John's, stroked a finger up his palm in what he thought was a gesture of intimacy but was a subtle handler trigger. "Are you feeling all right?" She pitched her voice low, gentle, concerned.

"I'm fine," he said, but there was definite strain around his eyes. Nancy studied him for a moment. His continued exposure to the Whitsigs was a definite risk. She was pulling him out.

She went for the big guns, but kept her voice to a whisper. "Do you want a treatment?" He thought the treatments were for his chronic headaches.

"Actually, that might not be such a bad idea." He kept his voice equally low, sounded relieved, glad she understood his plight but didn’t embarrass him in front of his friends. Poor grateful fool.

Nancy smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "All right. Let me go call a cab." She stepped away and fished her cell phone out of her clutch purse. She called for one of the black vans. John didn’t blink when it pulled up instead of a cab, simply climbed in. She’d ride back to the Dollhouse with him, see him safely into Topher’s imprint chair, and then get the real leave she’d wanted. Disaster averted. Bonus achieved.

Nancy really did like fishing.


End file.
